the failing light of evening. A squat two stories, the structure boasted a peeling marquee, rough-hewn door, and four wretchedly small front windows. The yard stretched less than forty feet in either direction, blanketed in snowy furls and cords.
Beyond, along a string of unprepossessing stone and timber buildings, the village’s main street, thickly white and swirling with wind, simply fell away into the river. Save for smoking chimneys, the only other visible movement was at the door of a pub teetering over the edge of a dock as a patron passed into it, escaping the storm.
The inn’s stable, however, seemed sturdy enough for the carriage and team. A donkey brayed. The stable, it seemed, was already inhabited.
The accommodations could not be helped. But it mattered little where Kitty lost herself in England as long as it was far from London.
“This will do,” she murmured. “This will do quite well.”
“I suppose it has the advantage of being as far from your mother and her beau as my parents’ home,” Emily offered.
“I daresay.” Kitty’s grin widened. Douglas Westcott, Lord Chamberlayne, adored her mother as much as her mother adored him. But the dowager would not even go to the shops without her spinster daughter. For years they had been inseparable, as close as mother and daughter could be. In Kitty’s estimation this did not leave sufficient space for proper lovemaking, or for a widowed gentleman to address his suit to a widowed lady with any measure of success. And so four days earlier, at shockingly short notice to the woman with whom she had spent every day for the past decade, and with only a kiss on the cheek, Kitty had set off to Shropshire for Christmas.
She pressed open the carriage door. “This storm will help with your little problem too, Marie.”
“Do you think so?”
“It could not have been more fortuitously arranged.”
A boy emerged from the stable, clomping through the white up to his knees. The coach leaned as Mr. Pen jumped off the box, snow descending from his coat in chunks.
“Poor man.” Kitty pulled her hood over her hair arranged into elegant plaits that morning by her superior maid. At some point during the day of increasingly slow travel, Emily’s first coachman had outstripped the servants’ carriage on the road, declaring his determination to achieve his master’s estate before the storm set in.
Alas, no such luck. They were here, in the middle of nowhere apparently, and now the servants’ carriage was also nowhere, but a rather different nowhere.
“Do you think this will persist?” Emily shouted into the wind, linking arms with her to press through the snowfall toward the door.
“The night through, to be sure, mum!” The stable boy, all teeth and elbows, tugged at his cap.
“Settled in right snug.”
In a flurry of ice and powder they entered the inn.
“Good eve, ladies!” A man approached, of middling age, whiskered salt-and-pepper, garbed in a simple coat and abundant red neck cloth. “Welcome to the Cock and Pitcher.”
“Mr. Milch,” Emily said in the forthright manner Kitty admired, “I came through here with my mother and father, Lord and Lady Vale, a year ago. Your wife served us an excellent roast and pudding. Will you have the same for me and Lady Katherine tonight, and bedchambers?”
“Of course, miss.” He smiled amiably and reached for their cloaks. “My missus will send your girls right up to prepare the chambers.”
“Our maids are behind, still on the road,” as well as Emily’s companion, the formidable Madame Roche. London gossips had made Kitty’s unwed state a happy topic for five years now; she
But Kitty cared for Emily’s spotless reputation on her friend’s behalf. It seemed, however, that an unchaperoned night on the road could not be helped.
Mr. Milch clucked his tongue. “Well, then make yourselves comfortable.” He gestured them from the foyer. “I’ll fetch my Gert to see after you while Ned and I arrange matters with your coachman. I hope he’ll be all right sleeping at the pub a’ways. We’re all filled up here.”
Emily nodded. “I don’t suppose Pen shall mind over much if he has good woolens.” Good woolens, good books, and good conversation—Emily Vale’s only needs. A practical girl, she was unconcerned with a person’s wayward past. It made her a lovely friend, one of Kitty’s few and cherished.
The ground floor of the inn was a modest chamber divided into two parts by the stair to the upper story. Two square tables flanked by benches and laid with plain lace coverings adorned the right side, and on the left a sofa and a pair of threadbare chairs crouched before a hearth. On the walls hung quilted samplers and an impressive rack of antlers, the windows draped with unadorned wool. The place smelled of onions and mutton stew and coffee.
“Kitty,” Emily said flatly, looking about the chamber, “I suspect you’ve never been in such a place in your life. You will never forgive me.”
“Don’t be absurd. It is delightful.” Rustic and shockingly simple.
The rug before the hearth shifted. Kitty leaped back. A gray shaggy head lifted from the floor and stared at her with great, deep eyes. Smiling, she removed her muffler and hat, and stepped to the fireplace, taking care not to tread on the dog’s tail and holding her palms out for warmth.
“I suppose it cannot be helped, as you say.” Emily dropped her slight form into a chair without any grace whatsoever, threw her damp bonnet onto her lap, and ran her fingers through her short locks in a manly gesture. For eighteen, she lacked every female grace and was a thorough relief from the rigidly cool femininity Kitty had perfected over the past five years.
She chuckled. “Really, you needn’t fret. But where exactly are we?”
“I daresay quite near Shrewsbury. Pen said we came to the Severn hours ago. But Kitty, I cannot help being concerned.” Her fingertips scratched at the bonnet’s brim.
“Emily—” Emily’s bow-shaped lips pursed.
“
Emily’s fine features set in earnest lines. “That is why I asked you to come, Kitty, because you are terribly clever with this sort of thing. This situation my parents have devised entirely befuddles me, but I know it shan’t pose any problem for you. After all, if you could rout a lord from Britain so successfully last summer, you can surely chase a mere mister from my parents’ house.”
Kitty’s throat caught.
Emily’s green eyes went wide. “Oh, I am terribly sorry, Kitty,” she rushed. “Madame Roche told me I should not mention it, but I am horrid at remembering such things, you know.”
None of her acquaintances had yet spoken of it aloud. Leave it to Emily.
Three years earlier, after a masquerade ball at which she had told Lambert Poole she no longer cared enough to even hate him, she had locked away all the sensitive information she’d collected on him. For two and a half years that file sat untouched in a drawer. But six months ago, as the season was drawing to a close, Lambert had threatened her brother Alex, accusing him of criminal activities to disguise his own. And Kitty finally unlocked her files. Along with information provided to the Board of Admiralty by another source, her knowledge of Lambert’s untoward activities had damned him.
Of course, no one was supposed to know the part she’d played in his banishment. But the information leaked out, and for months now gossips had made a feast of the spinster Lady Katherine Savege’s astounding involvement in bringing to justice a criminal lord, those same gossips who even now still snubbed her because she had given her virtue to that very man.
“You mustn’t allow it to concern you, Marie. I am quite—” Boots scuffed on the stairs. In sticky relief, Kitty looked up. Her stomach turned over.
On the landing above stood a gentleman of considerable height, broad-shouldered and loose-
limbed, yet without particular merit to those estimable masculine qualities unless one were enamored of
